


the first sleepover

by storyskein



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dating, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, be aware that there is some mention of vomiting and stuff if you're uncomfortable with that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 13:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyskein/pseuds/storyskein
Summary: Clarke sucks at being sick, and Bellamy is a pretty good caretaker.





	the first sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> 'sunscreen' by ira wolf is the theme song of this fic.
> 
> for verbaepulchellae, who wanted some comfort fluff <3

“Clarke, what are you doing?” Bellamy’s voice is gruff and demanding, and, frankly, Clarke resents it. They had been trying to go on a nice dinner date for weeks now, but between school, grading, work, and family, every single dinner plan they made seemed to crumble before their eyes. _This_ was their night. 

“Going out to dinner?” Clarke replies testily as she does the buttons on her new navy blue shirtwaist dress. Well, not as new as it was three weeks ago when they first had planned this amazing date, but. 

“No, you’re not,” Bellamy bites back. “And if you don’t take off that dress you’re going to ruin it with your own vomit.”

Clarke eyes him beadily. “Don’t be a dick. I’m fine.”

Bellamy _tsks_ under his breath. “You have no idea how to be sick, Griffin. You’re about to throw up. Go to the bathroom, for fuck’s sake.”

Clarke can feel her bottom lip want to tremble, but she will _not_ cry in front of Bellamy. They’re not there yet, and being sick in front of him already feels too vulnerable. But as soon as the last button is undone and the dress slides off into his hands, her stomach feels like someone clamped down a vise of made of barbed wire on it. 

“Oh fuck!” Is the last thing she says, before, well. She’s not saying anything for awhile. 

*

“I hate this,” she moans, sinking back onto her heels. Hair is sticking to her forehead, and she’s exhausted. Another clenching wave of nausea has passed, and she can do nothing more than close her eyes and feel grateful for the momentary relief. But still, she feels bad she ruined their date night and now he’s stuck here with her vomiting, of all things, and has been nothing but kind. The kind of gracious and kind that makes her feel a little embarrassed, even if he is still a dick about it. 

“You just suck at being sick.” Bellamy says it for the fifth time but his voice is softer now. He’s leaning in the doorway looking completely unperturbed. Clarke had tried to hide it from him, feeling a sense of shameful propriety that he was seeing her like this, so undone and terrible, but he waved her away with a _Taking care of a younger sibling means you get used to lot of vomit and shit._

“How should I do it better, Bellamy? Vomit with more style?”

He laughs then, genuine and fond. “See? You’re even trying to make vomiting competitive. Do you have any Sprite? Ginger-ale? Club soda?”

Clarke furrows her brow. “Shit, no, I don’t. Hand me my phone, I’ll order some--”

Bellamy sighs. “No, you won’t. Again, you’re the one vomiting. I can pop by the store around the corner.” 

“No, that’s okay, just hand me my phone--”

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice is firm. “No. You will use your phone only for watching B99 or whatever makes you feel better.” He disappears for a moment and returns to the bathroom door with his jacket on. “What’s your sick drink preference?”

“Um...ginger ale, I guess” 

“What flavor of Gatorade?”

“You really don’t have--”

Bellamy cuts in, matter of fact, while he grabs the tote bag she keeps by the door. “What flavor of Gatorade, Griffin?”

Clarke sighs, defeated. “Lemon-lime.” 

He grins and tips a nod to her. “Don’t move,” he says. 

“Ha-ha,” she manages to mutter before she’s sick again. 

*

Bellamy sets her up like the best caretaker in the world before he crashes on her couch. She stopped protesting because she couldn’t anymore, and was eternally grateful at the crushed ice and ginger ale cocktails that appeared in both the bathroom and her on her nightstand, the nest of towels and the old picnic blanket he made into a pallet in the bathroom, the extra trash can he brought beside her bed. It was also practiced and coordinated, delivered with that patented Bellamy Blake I am Gruff Because I Care charm. 

Sometime in the week morning hours, just as the sky begins to lighten to gray, Clarke takes a sip of the gingerale, thinks fondly of her new boyfriend, and passes out. 

Clarke startles awake sometime in the midday. The late spring sun radiates soft warmth into the bathroom, warming the white-and-black hex tile. Her stomach is settled, and Clarke feels, intuitively, that the worst is over. 

She braces her palms on the floor and slowly sits up, testing each phase of movement. Standing makes her woozy but feels good to stretch her legs, get blood flowing into her muscles. 

The hot-hot-hot shower scalds away the sickness and brings her to life again, loosening her joints and easing all the muscle that contracted while she had the virus. 

“Hey you.” She hears Bellamy’s disembodied voice from the bathroom door. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better.” Clarke calls out as she leans her head back into the spray, rinsing out the shampoo. “I think it’s over.” 

“That’s good,” he says. “You mind if I shower after you?”

“Not at all.” She’s absurdly pleased that he would ask to, that he stayed over night, that he did all the things he did for her. Clarke knows she’s proud, has always been proud of how independent she is, how she takes care of herself. But something about Bellamy makes being cared for feel good, not like she’s weak or powerless. 

Clarke turns off the spray to save some hot water for him, steps out of the shower to towel off. 

Bellamy’s looking at her in a certain kind of way, like he can’t quite decide what he should say. “I just realized that I might should--that you might want to be alone,” he starts. “I just kind of realized that we haven’t spent the night before, and I just assumed--”

“No,” Clarke cuts him off. “Please---please stay? If you want? You don’t have to, but--”

“No,” he smiles, almost cutting over her, and suddenly they’re awkward again like when she first asked him out. Neither one of them, she thinks, has much chance to be vulnerable and awkward, and they don’t even do it well, but at least they can do it with each other. And that thought makes her blush a little, and she’s too tender to think of all the implications right now, anyway. 

“I’d love to stay,” he says. Then he gently takes the towel and helps her dry off so she doesn’t have to bend over and irritate her stomach, presses a kiss to her forehead when he’s done and sends her off to get in bed. 

Clarke slides into bed minutes later, dry and with fresh pajamas on, her body already tugging her under, desperate for deep, healing sleep. Just as she drifts off, Clarke feels Bellamy slid into bed behind her. He kisses the back of neck, and together, they fall asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> all my fics end with sleeping I AM SORRY I JUST LOVE SLEEP?


End file.
